


Regret

by Umeko



Category: d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Character Death, Drunkenness, Gen, Rage, Regret, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umeko/pseuds/Umeko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a darkfic AU with character death. A drunken D’Artagnan takes his revenge on Aramis for getting his best friend Porthos killed while pursuing his own selfish ambitions. Dark D’Artagnan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.

D’Artagnan mulled over his tankard of wine. His Majesty had seen fit not to involve him in this matter for good reason. It was only by chance that he happened upon the aftermath of the skirmish. The shock of seeing Porthos’ shattered corpse had in the cave had numbed him. He would that those poor remains be retrieved for a proper burial, but it was too risky. The soldiers he was with had their orders and they were not his. The cave-roof was precariously unstable and was liable to collapse at any time. All he could do was to slip Porthos’ ring off his finger and pocket it before the soldiers noticed. A whispered prayer before the rocks shifted again and forced them to flee. The cave was sealed off completely by the latest rock-fall.

 

_Porthos, you poor fool…_

 

The first real emotion he felt since Porthos’ demise was rage. Rage against the ambitious man who had seen fit to embroil Porthos in such a foolhardy scheme. He had not known or even guessed, until the surviving accomplices were interrogated. The target of his rage now stewed in the Bastille, waiting judgement. Athos would be meeting D’Artagnan later, to hear from him what had befallen their friends.

 

Porthos, that friendly giant of a man, his brother-in-arms, was too generous and too guileless to see the dangers of Aramis’ scheming. He should have remained on his country estate with his minor title and his hounds. It was a fine estate and his steward had managed it well. He should have remained in the country, married some plump lass and sired a dozen children for Athos and D’Artagnan to be godfather to. The estate would have provided for his family well. At his last visit, Porthos had mentioned in passing the widowed daughter of a baron. The lady might not be young but she would make a sensible wife. Was it Porthos’ desire to better his circumstances that gave Aramis the lure he needed? Granted they were no longer young men…

 

D’Artagnan yelled for more wine and thrust his emptied tankard at a passing potboy. The musketeers in the tavern recognized him and kept their wary distance. He was newly appointed to the post of Captain a year ago, after having been dismissed by Mazarin. They had never seen their captain in such a temper. Gascons are a passionate people so they say. Veritable lions in battle and loyal to a fault they are. Hadn’t a previous and much-loved captain of the Musketeer Corps hailed from Gascony? But none had served for a time in the service of a man like Cardinal Mazarin. Monsieur de Treville had kept well out of Richelieu’s machinations. Perhaps the work D’Artagnan did for Mazarin had tainted him in the eyes of his men somehow.

 

Athos… Athos would help him make sense of it all. Right now he felt like tearing Aramis limb from limb. He fingered the letter in his vest which would grant him access to the Bastille. Louis XIV had given it to him earlier. The king was generous to grant them a chance to speak with the prisoner.

 

It had always been Porthos who cheered him up in those early days in Paris, when the homesickness was the worst. He was like the big brother D’Artagnan never had. Athos was too gruff and Aramis too intellectual. Both hailed from the privileged noble classes and acted accordingly. It was Porthos, lesser son of an impoverished minor noble and a country boy himself at heart, who D’Artagnan related to the best. Porthos’ guffaw, that crushing bear-hug… When he caught a cold that first winter, it was Porthos who sat with him and cheered him up with improbable tales of adventure.

 

 _Porthos, lying there, half-buried in the earth, his exposed arm twisted and rotting, with bite-marks from gnawing animals…_ He recognised Porthos from that ridiculous tattoo on his forearm, a memento of his sailor days. He was not too thrilled when D’Artagnan informed him that the Spanish words he had inscribed upon his skin said something exceedingly rude about his father thanks to a mistranslation by the tattooist. Athos had known but was too polite to inform his fellow sailor of the slip-up. D’Artagnan took a swallow from his tankard and his stomach threatened revolt. He recalled how the finger had literally popped off in his hand as he worked the ring free. 

 

True, they might have drifted apart with the years but D’Artagnan felt as though a part of him had died with Porthos. He would wait no more. Let Athos finish his arrangements for Raoul’s enlistment. He would go without him.

 

D’Artagnan slammed his coin on the table and stalked off into the night. Sensing his simmering rage, the ruffians of the night kept their distance and let him pass unmolested as he stormed off in the direction of the Bastille.   

 

* * *

 

Aramis shuddered as another furry body scampered across his foot. Rats were a fixture of the prison. Shirtless, he shivered in the damp air. His shoulders and arms ached from being chained and hung from the ceiling. His situation was dire indeed. The king would not forgive him for this. Already, he had been beaten and interrogated upon his arrival in the prison. His co-conspirators have been rounded up, apart from those already dead. Philippe’s fate was unknown. Perhaps the king might be persuaded to some mercy with regards to his twin but Aramis was doubtful on that count. There was still a chance, however faint, he could claim benefit of the clergy, let his case be heard in a church court… Louis XIV would like to maintain France’s ties with the Church…

 

 _Light. Boots, two pairs at least._ Someone was approaching his cell. The keys jangled in the lock and the door swung open. A pair of boots scrunched the mouldy straw of his cell. Before he could lift his head to see who his visitor was, a fist slammed into the side of his face, cracking his cheekbone. Aramis spat blood and a loose molar before another punch smashed into his face and broke his nose.

 

“You bastard, you are the one who should be dead, not him!”

 

Aramis struggled to place the voice. It was familiar somehow but… a fist smashed into his gut and he swayed on his feet. Only the chains kept him upright. He tried to focus his eyes on his approaching visitor.

 

“D’Artagnan?” he croaked out the name through bloodied lips. A gloved hand gripped his hair and yanked his head back harshly. _D’Artagnan was drunk,_ the fact hit Aramis. He could smell the alcohol on his breath. _And dangerously unpredictable._ He was furious. The rage was rolling off him in waves.

 

“D’Artagnan… is t-this about Porthos?” His neck was protesting the unnatural angle it was held at.

 

“Do not say his name, you scum!” D’Artagnan spat into his face before releasing him. The curses and blows followed were hard and fast. Aramis felt his legs give under the assault. A rib cracked. Pain exploded in mist of red. A heavy boot crunched and ground his bare foot into the stone floor.

 

“Porthos wanted to get married again and start a family. He wanted to enjoy his life in the country with his family… Was that too much for him to ask? _You,_ had to drag him from his estate on your treasonous plots for _your_ own selfish ambitions! It was his misfortune to consider a snake like you as a friend!”

 

D’Artagnan was panting but his rage was not yet spent. He waited to catch his breath, long enough for Aramis to speak.

 

“I-I’m sorry… please, forgive me…” the priest blubbered. D’Artagnan took stock of the prisoner. Aramis had changed much in the years since they were musketeers. Now D’Artagnan hardly recognized him now in that defeated, pathetic figure. He tossed Porthos’ ring at Aramis’ feet in disgust and would have turned to leave if it weren’t for Aramis’ next words.

 

“Y-you have changed, D’Artagnan,” Aramis wheezed. “Remember when w-we were m-musketeers…”

 

D’Artagnan growled and the pummelling started anew. “How dare you mention those days! He was your friend and you let him die! You have no business getting Porthos involved in treason!”

 

Aramis was given a brief respite when the beating stopped. D’Artagnan shouted an order for the guard, who came running like a terrified hare. Aramis fell limply into the straw when his wrists were freed from their chains. Before he could stagger to his feet, the punishment started anew with heavy kicks. A kick to his groin elicited a scream from his parched throat. He tried to curl into a ball and protect himself to no avail.

 

Another rib snapped and Aramis found himself gasping for air. His chest burned. He could not breathe. Blood was filling his mouth, his throat… He felt like he was drowning.

 

“Stop… P-please, forgive…” he tried to beg D’Artagnan to stop hurting him.

 

“Damn you! It’s his forgiveness you should be asking. And you wouldn’t get any from me!” Each word was punctuated with a kick to his tormented body. Aramis choked up more blood. D’Artagnan squatted down next to him, grabbing him by the hair and slammed his head into the flagstone floor hard. Blood from his torn scalp got into his eyes, blinding him.

 

He was dying. The certainty came to Aramis. His body was too spent and weak to withstand the abuse D’Artagnan was unleashing on it. He had no strength to even crawl away or shield himself anymore from the punches and kicks. With D’Artagnan’s curses in his ears, he breathed a sigh of regret and allowed oblivion to claim him.

 

The younger man did not know when the prisoner went limp. He continued to curse, kick and punch until someone restrained him.

 

“D’Artagnan! Snap out of it! You’ll kill him! Don’t stand there gaping like a goldfish! Come get him out of here now!” Athos yelled and screamed for help in pulling his friend away. A guard reluctantly obliged. Together, they dragged a bellowing D’Artagnan out of the cell.

 

“Athos, why? Why did you stop me? He killed Porthos…”

 

The naked hurt and loss was clear in the younger man’s eyes as he turned to his older companion. Athos shook his head. He was too late. He had guessed at His Majesty’s game when he learned that D’Artagnan had been sent ‘by chance’ to the aftermath of the skirmish and that he had been given special permission to visit Aramis. Perhaps Mazarin had a hand in it too to avoid the awkwardness of bringing a priest to trial for treason. Everyone knew of the ties that bound them four and D’Artagnan would have viewed Porthos’ death, indirectly caused by Aramis’ plots, as the ultimate betrayal.

 

“He’s dead, sir…” the guard reported as he stepped out of the cell.

 

“D-dead?” D’Artagnan blinked unbelievingly. The wine melted away from his system as a painful clarity dawned. He raised his hands and saw that they were stained red.

 

“Athos, what have I done?” D’Artagnan sobbed like he had never sobbed since he was a child. Athos silently pressed D’Artagnan’s face against his shoulder and allowed him to weep.  


End file.
